The Felhand (Itheca)
The lone warlock sat quietly on her heels, peering down at the barren wasteland below her. Atop the rigid mountain perch, she watched as two young humans sparred hastily with each other. She shook her head in distaste at their lack of skill with sword and wondered what it would have been like had her warrior friend, Grondok, been there to see them. A sure thing he would have nodded in sympathy with her quiet scowling – those Orcs rarely appreciated daftness… how ironic. The two warriors, still wet behind the ears, battled on, completely oblivious to her presence. Had they been properly trained, they would not have engaged so dramatically with an audience nearby. With a sigh, she brushed a stray of ebony hair behind her ear, and stood up against the cold, biting wind. She stretched her muscles and rotated her fingertips over the top of her staff. Beside her, her minion yawned in indifference to the cold air sweeping through Badlands. She smiled at the demon, her Felguard; its skin sharing the same dark colour as her hair. “Haathun, what do you say we step down from this chill and greet the warriors below?” she quipped. The Felguard winced at the warlock’s grating voice. “Do not waste my time, lesser creature,” it growled. She cackled, then, and stared up into the bleak sky. “Forsaken bones, Haathun!” she snapped and then returned her gaze to him. “As long as I am Itheca Felhand, you will obey me, lesser creature.” With a sigh, she braced herself against the wind as she quietly began descending the rocky terrain. Forever enslaved, regardless of its outward loathing, her Felguard followed Itheca down the steep edge of the mountain. Below them, not forty feet, the sparring imbeciles continued their insipid dueling, each crying in short-lived victory as his sword connected with the other’s armor. Itheca smirked, quietly planning her devious attack. After all, it had been a slow week and she required more souls for her spells. Why not drain the souls from these two humans? she mused. Maneuvering quietly behind a large boulder, she eyed the warriors closely as Haathun scanned the distance for distractions. With a nod from the Felguard, Itheca began to cast while the warriors continued their rivalry, oblivious to the inevitable doom. “Ah hah!” one yelled. “I told you that I was the best!” The other, panting and sweating heavily, shook his head. “Oh, yeah? Well, what is that red liquid dripping from your shoulder?” Suddenly, the triumphant victor doubled over in agony; a deep-purple curse encircling his head. He threw his hands up and pressed them futilely against his temples as harrowing screams erupted from his throat. “Make it stop!” he pleaded. The other human, unaware of the warlock and demon behind him, ran to his sparring partner and knelt beside him. “You need a healer! Can you ride? Where’s your horse?” Itheca grinned and caught Haathun’s eye. “Now,” she ordered. “You cannot command me,” it snarled. Itheca turned to Haathun and narrowed her eyes. “Now,” she repeated, as her fingers toyed with the pendant around her neck – a Demonic Sacrifice gem. Without further argument, the Felguard charged the two warriors, stunning the one off his knees. He cleaved his Arcanite Reaper into the warrior’s mail armor, throwing him back several yards, and continued to swing his axe as it connected with flesh. Itheca gleamed in anticipation at her other victim, still wailing in a purple cloud of agony on the ground. She walked slowly over the water-starved dirt toward him. At the sight of her rotted skin, his screaming began to fade to a pitiful whimpering, barely audible over the clashing of weapons behind them. She bent over beside him and whispered in his ear with her hoarse voice, “This will hurt a great deal, human. I’m going to drain your soul while you’re still alive. And, once your friend is nicely subdued, he will watch your suffering and then share your fate. And since we Forsaken never let a corpse go to waste, I will then eat your flesh from your bones.” Itheca cooed and licked the tip of his ear. “I’ll bet you’re a delicious one, too.” The human wept but, as a last attempt to survive, determinedly lifted his sword to Itheca’s neck. Reflexively, she brought up her staff in time to block the sword’s sharp edge before quickly backing away from him. Angered by his audacity, and her carelessness, she extended her hand and smirked at him. “So much for a quick death, human,” she teased and proceeded to thrust her shadowed hand inside his head. She deftly located his soul and spared a hungry glance at his flawless flesh. Without further delay, Itheca wrapped her shadowed hand around his soul, pulled its essence toward her, and slowly drained him. Haathun walked up beside her then, dragging the other warrior by his neck. He motioned to the screaming human and inquired, “What happened to your friend?” Itheca watched as the warrior’s eyes rolled back into his head. The other human, wriggling in vain against the strength of Haathun’s grip, screamed for help. “Only the vultures can hear you,” she mocked as she lowered her shadowed hand and then sighed. “I had wished you’d see more of his death, young warrior. No matter, you’ll enjoy your own, I’m sure.” As the human’s screams rang shrill throughout Badlands, Itheca wondered if there would ever be a day when she’d tire of this life. With an incredulous guffaw, she rolled her eyes and cackled wickedly. “Never,” she whispered. - Written by Itheca Category:Stories